Drabble Rabble
by Cookirini
Summary: Yes, they are drabbles. Drabbles of all shapes, sizes, and themes. Surely, it goes from aardvarks to Zimbabwe and has everything in between. Come and see!
1. Intro!

_The following is a series of drabbles written by me._

_For some time now, I have been writing some shorts for a certain Livejournal website, which I have decided for the present not to name. However, the following are themed shorts introduced from this website, which I decided to write for. The result was the following, which you will read._

_Some of the stories became full-length one-shots - a dash of absinthe, Red Eyes and Speeding Bullet, to name a few. Most, however, are little scattered pieces, longing to be a whole, and yet at the same time they speak volumes about the subject they were written about. At least, that is my opinion._

_With the drabbles comes their themes, so that the reader may know what the parameters of was drabble were. Obviously, many of these are not 'true' drabbles – 100 words or less. But they are drabbles, nevertheless. Some are good, some are bad, some are strange, and some of them are award-winning. But all of them are mine, and I bring them now to you, even as I continue to work on them._

_Enjoy._

_-Cookirini_


	2. One! the strawberry & the rose

**the strawberry & the rose**

_Theme: Strawberries_

_---------------------_

Most people do not know this, but...roses are related to strawberries.

It's true. They are in the same subfamily, _Rosoideae_, only in different genres - _Rosa_ and _Fragria_. They are, in many ways, the same, but like cousins, they are married into different parts of the family. Something in the seperation made the strawberry succulent to the tongue, while the rose grew sharp thorns to prick the finger of a careless handler.

I am no careless handler of the rose. I have studied the only real rosebush we had on our planet for untold years, trying to harvest it to no avail. Our roses are limp and lifeless, nothing like the real roses, which can be beautiful if grown correctly.

I like to think that strawberries are superior to roses, though my experience with the strawberry is...somewhat limited.

For I have also tasted a real strawberry...only once in my life. They had been smuggled to my land, and they were on the verge of spoiling. I had been beckoned to try one, only one, and I did, taking the smallest one from the bunch. It was somewhat tart from the journey, but some of the sweetness was still encased, and as the juice drizzled down my chin...

I vowed to also harvest strawberries. Yet each and every attempt also failed to yield a good crop.

But I know of another place where they harvest strawberries and roses, _Fragria_ and _Rosa_, and they are the best to behold. They live in a great palace of white, shielded by magic. Ruling there is a rose, his thorns sharp as knives, ready to cut anyone and anything that dares to come near it. He could be of any species of rose, for they all look the same after a time - dull and boring, no matter how romantic or alluring they are in the beginning.

Then, there is the strawberry. Curvy and salacious. Small and delicious. Fruit, cultivated from the best stalk on Earth.

She is surely as tart as the first one I tasted, yet above all things I desire her ripened taste. The strawberry that I wish to cultivate is all of her, from head to toe, curvaceous buds to juicy lips. She is a fruit all on her own in a family bursting with achenes and druplets of all kinds, seen all around the world. Nothing compares to her.

Soon, very soon, she shall be all mine to eat. Then, I can truly say, strawberries are truly better than roses.

_fin_


	3. Two! Pondering Backublah Zooooper

**Pondering Backublah Zooooper**

_Theme: Fear_

_-------------------------------------_

Four minds, four hearts. Four dreams, four believers.

Four people facing a rather terrible dilemma.

"Are you afraid?"

"Well..."

PallaPalla paused as she looked down at her periwinkle beryl of power. The Blue Amazones Orb still pulsed with power, even as her own life force was being sucked from her by her master.

The master she hated, the master that was zapping them with black lightning.

"Muhuhuhuh!" She heard Zirconia cackle. "Dear Sailor Moon, they would never listen to _you_! They are _mine_!"

"Well, PallaPalla?" JunJun grunted as lightning struck her. "What are you gonna do?"

"I...well..."

"Break...don't break..."

She looked at JunJun, who had posed the question to her. She then looked at CeresCere, who was babbling yet again and carrying on with her petal picking fortune telling, which was never accurate, and everyone knew it. She couldn't see VesVes, but she could hear her whimper behind her. They were all thinking the same thing, and PallaPalla knew it.

Indeed, the prospect of losing one's dreams was a scary one. Especially for PallaPalla; she'd carried those dreams around for a long time - years. In the meantime, her dreams had expanded, from simply staying young forever, to staying young forever and amassing a bunch of dolls and getting rid of old hag Zirconia. She'd almost done it once before, and all on her own.

She almost had a half a mind to keep her dream ball, reject Sailor Moon's suggestion to grow up. She wanted to stay young, keep her dreams. Even better, if the others broke their dream balls, she'd truly be the one Amazones in Nephelenia's eyes...and she'd not have to share the power with three other people.

She could easily imagine it. Her, not having to worry about her pesky partners meddling in her play house. Her, then usurping Zirconia. Her, taking over as right hand man for the troops. Her, stealing the Golden Crystal from Nephelenia for herself when she wasn't looking. Her, taking over the Dead Moon Circus and becoming the one true ringmaster.

Her, Queen PallaPalla, with extra names tacked on. Yes; she would be Queen PallaPalla Boomshakalacka MuuMuuMuuuuu Smith and Weston the Eighteenth. She would have blue hair streaked with neon yellow and wearing a, itsy bitsy teeny weeny purple (because she didn't like yellow) polka-dot bikini.

Once she implemented her scheme to overthrow Nephelenia and lock her in a giant iron doll house, she would rule the Earth, which she would rename Backublah Zooooper. A pineapple fist in her left hand and a candy cane scepter on her right, she would keep herself a young child forever with the Golden Crystal, with her dolls and her video games and her pranks and her beautiful dreams all surrounding her as she had her subjects bring her tributes of chocolate truffles and back massages. No one would ever call her a loser or a baby again.

It would be so beautiful. And she would do it _alone_.

And alone was the reason PallaPalla suddenly realized just how scared she was to take that other path. Was she _really_ willing to just let her friends grow up and die, no matter how annoying or mean they were they were at times? They _were_ her friends. They _did_ take her into their group when they didn't have to. They _did_ stick with her when they didn't have to.

She was a part of them. And when it was her without them, them without her, how could they call themselves a _quartet_? They would be a _uare_, for without PallaPalla, there would be no q's or t's in their illustrious word.

The little blue-haired girl realized it would be a gloomy existence without those letters for everyone involved.

"...Break! We should break our orbs."

"Pssh." PallaPalla heard VesVes huff over the buzz of the black lightning. "CereCere, your fortune telling is _never_ right."

Then PallaPalla felt everyone lift their balls in unison. She wondered if they were doing the right thing, or, wondered if any of them had pondered the possibility of becoming queen of Dead Moon. Of betraying her friends for the sake of their own selfish dreams, personified in their dream orbs, before throwing their powers away for the sake of an unknown future. She wondered what they would think of her, as they threw their balls to the floor, smashing them into thousands of pieces, and wondered if they were frightened as much as she was.

That was when she saw her own orb shatter in front of her own eyes, dissipating into thousands of tiny black sparks, before fluttering away like cuckoo clocks.

**FIN**


	4. Three! Surprise

**Surprise**

**_Theme: Birthday_**

**_-------------------------------_**

****

_Happy birthday to you..._

She came down the stairs into the candlelit room, her bright blue eyes sparkling in the hazy light. Her lips were tinged with make-up, her eyes gently lined with white shadow.

_Happy birthday to you..._

She wore a rose pink taffeta dress – short-sleeved, the flowing skirts going down to her knees. Her hands were wrapped in white, as was her waist, with a shimmering bow in the back, and also her shoulders, covered with a white shawl. Her gold bangs were curled into ringlets; the rest of her hair was also curled into ringlets, longer ones, and clasped into a pink-and-gold butterfly pin.

_Happy birthday..._

She thought of all the things that were going to happen. Perhaps they would have a big cake, lots of big presents and smiles and games. Her biggest wish was for her boyfriend to return to her, after a full year abroad. Perhaps, even that distant dream could come true. Anything was possible on one's birthday.

Her eyes suddenly sunk as she entered the dining room and saw what was at the table.

_...little rabbit..._

No one. Not even her family was in their own dining room, the ones who told her to get dressed and get ready for her birthday party that very morning.

She gave a sigh at the realization that her family had simply forgotten, or had left her to open her own presents, since it was a Thursday that year and everyone was busy anyways. Her lip shaking slightly at the terrible letdown, she turned to go back upstairs and change. All her preparing had been for nothing.

_Happy birthday..._

**_click_**

"**_SURPRISE!_**"

Usagi gave a scream as the lights turned on; the chorus of shouts startled her. The shock turned into laughter; everyone was there. Mother, father, brother, all beaming. All of her friends, all with their own gifts, grinning and clapping.

Even _him_. Him who had been abroad all this time.

"Mamo-chan..."

_...to you._

He came forward, scooping her up into his arms. With a squeal of joy she embraced him tightly, tears coming down her eyes. On such a joyous day, even her father was happy to see the man with his child, truly in love and reunited once more.

"Usako." They kissed. "Happy birthday."


	5. Four! Scent of a Woman

_**Scent of a Woman**_

_Theme: Cigarette_

------------------

"Am I finished yet?"  
"One moment."

Michiru had just finished another album, called _Scent of a Woman_. Pacino references aside, the photographer had wanted to show Michiru as something other than just a classical artist, as the album had jazz on it as well; she had wanted something that looked sleek, sexy, _fin de siècle_. Nostalgic, even, like a speakeasy.

So Michiru had been dressed in the slinkiest and tightest black dress and gloves that could be found, wrapped in real white fox fur shawl. She wore a white cloche with red roses, her green hair literally stuffed underneath it. What wouldn't go under was instead greased with shoe shine, and made to look black against the red background.

"There."

Michiru didn't mind being jammed into a dress two sizes too small. Michiru didn't mind the fact that she had a smelly animal carcass on her. Nor did she mind the fact that the shine would take hours to get out, or that her six-inch-heels were cutting off her circulation after five hours. She didn't even mind the fact that the photographer was instructing her to look as blank as possible, her expression like that of an addict or a zombie. It was too impersonal, too straightforward, for someone like her.

There were some things that Michiru decided would tolerate from this photographer. She did not, however, tolerate the cigarette and cigarette holder that pathetically drooped out of her mouth. To her, it was like a long, slender, black and white tumor that she didn't ask for, and the longer the shoot went the more angry she got about it.

Finally, as the shoot wrapped up, it got to her.

"...Hang on a second."  
"Hmm?" The photographer looked up, confused. "What is it, Kaiou-san?"  
"I..." There was a pause. "I cannot do this."  
"What?"

To the photographer's horror, Michiru took the cigarette holder out of her mouth and let it fall to the floor. Then, with a movement of her heel, she crushed it.

"M...!" The photographer shouted. "HEY! That was a vintage item! It cost me a lot of money!"  
"That is too bad." Michiru looked at the photographer. "I didn't ask for it to be included."  
"Excuse me," at this, the photographer huffed. "But we agreed that we wanted a nostalgic atmosphere for your cover so that it appealed to people who didn't know your work, did we not? So I made you a flapper, a popular caricature."  
"Uh huh." Michiru lowered her voice. "What is your point?"  
"Flappers _smoked._" The photographer talked to Michiru like she was five. "It was the cool thing to do. That was it, the 'scent of a woman'.  
"Is that so?"  
"...I find your conduct inappropriate and an inconvenience to me, young lady." The photographer glared. "In case you don't know your history - which you _don't_ - the smell of cigarettes excited Americans and gave allure to the flappers."  
"Not _this_ flapper." Michiru's eyes flashed. "I don't care about history. I refuse to be photographed with that thing hanging from my lips."  
"You _refuse_!" The woman's eyes widened. "What do you think this is? Who do you think you're talking to!"  
"It's my right to renege the contract, as stipulated by our agreement, and that's exactly what I'm doing." Michiru didn't back down from the argument. "And don't worry, I'll pay you for your _inconvenience_, ma'am."

There was a silence as the two women stared each other down. All around them, the photographer's assistants watched, intrigued by the showdown. It wasn't that Michiru didn't have a case; there had been nothing stipulating that the violinist would have a cigarette in her mouth, and many of them knew of her aversion to smoking due to a recent death in the family. The album was even dedicated to that family member.

In that aspect, the relationship between the subject and their boss had been tenuous to begin with. On the other hand, no one had ever gone against the photographer's opinion before. She was well known and respected, her images internationally renowned. Thirty years of experience made her to go-to for any artist who wanted to leave their mark on culture. To argue with her, many said, was tantamount to career suicide. This seemed doubly so for Michiru, whose album was also being marketed to English-speaking audiences due to the main track being in that language.

"...Fine." Haughtily, the photographer closed the lens on her camera. "Then I _refuse_ to take your picture. Our contract is finished."  
"Very well."  
"Just remember that you won't find another photographer as good as me."  
"I beg to differ on that." Michiru turned away. "I think you're the worst photographer I've ever worked with."  
"Is that so?" As the assistants meekly packed up, the photographer gave Michiru a final, smug look. "Well, I believe you'll think otherwise when your album does poorly. But don't call me crying about how you only sold twenty albums."

With that, the entourage left the girl by herself on the pedestal, a red background and a broken cigarette holder the only sign of the original shoot. The photographer meant every word she said; she was certain Michiru would fail in her venture to create a cover as great as the one _she_ had conceptualized.

After all, no one else could do it like she did.

-

A month later, _Scent of a Woman_ came out in stores everywhere. After the fallout with the photographer, Michiru had the cover personally done by a friend, a non-photographer. The shoot took a shoddy ten minutes to complete, it was said in certain circles. The move indeed seemed like suicide to everyone, as the photographer predicted. It was, at least, until the cover was finally revealed.

Michiru was on the cover amidst a red background - cloche, fur shawl, black dress and shoe-shined black hair, just as in the original concept. But there was one major difference - instead of a pathetic cigarette pressed between her reddened lips, there was, instead, a white rose in full bloom. Hiding behind that rose was Michiru's smile, a smile of triumph and personality far different from the look of indifference that had marked the photographer's vision. On the back cover, the credits for the image read, "Cover photo by Tsukino Usagi."

Scented by fresh flowers, speaking the language of love, it went on to sell fifty million copies worldwide.


End file.
